Alliances
by Innocent Magic
Summary: The world was hers for the taking, if only she would play this right. Alliances are struck and new enemies emerge as Hermione learns she'll do almost anything to win.
1. Chapter 1

_The world was hers for the taking, if she would only play this right._

When the populace looked back (ten, twenty, _eighty_ years later), they wondered how they'd fallen for it. Really, what could make a man so desperate he would trade in his morals and convictions and elect such tyranny to the throne. That was all the Ministry was, now, an extravagant throne room. The people, puppets. The atrium, a shrine to Her Grace.

Grace indeed, the common man would scorn. Sure, it was all smiles and promises and heroism in the beginning, when there were still opponents to be beaten and hearts to be won. But the tides had turned and the waters had never felt so turbulent, not since _He Who Must Not Be Named_.

The ground shook when she commanded it so, one final act of destruction from her death-bed. In the wings, her eldest son stood ready to take his mother's place, ready to lead the muck who cowered when he entered their shops, who not-so-secretly scorned his mother, wished ill on her. His beautiful, beloved, powerful mother.

And when Hermione died, the populace were unsure whether to smile or grimace because who knew what evil she could have spawned to continue her reign?

As they watched her coffin lower into the ground, immortalised on the front page of every newspaper, only a handful remembered to mourn.

* * *

Somewhat predictably, the weather was crap when she lost her job. Despite every protective charm known to man cocooning the Ministry tunnels, the boom of thunder still shook the corridors on the top-most floors. Water still gathered in the corners where wizards discarded their umbrellas and galoshes. The whole building reeked on days like this.

Thoughts of poetic justice and pathetic fallacy flittered through Hermione's mind as she just as nearly _stomped_ through the corridors, box of personal possessions floating ahead, clearing her path. She wasn't interrupted - no wizard dare interrupt a woman in such a temper. It just wasn't done.

Reaching the lift, Hermione took a moment to brush her hair behind her ear – quick hands concealing her need to brush an angry tear from her cheek.

 _The nerve of them, though!_ she fumed.

To be fired was one thing.

To be made redundant from a department for whom only that morning she'd finalised the budget for expansion? That stung. More than stung. It burned and whipped and maddened her until she could almost hear her magic sparking in her veins.

They hadn't 'let go' any purebloods, she noted. Not even any half-bloods. Just her, to match the loss of Justine Perkins the week before, and Matilda Honeycork in June. Three muggleborn witches who'd earned their roles on merit and been cast-off as easily as skrewt juice.

Naively, she'd let herself believe the two women before her had just been poor at their jobs, that they'd deserved to go. Her own performance had been stellar. Exemplary, really. It had to be if she was going to progress from the Assistant to the Junior Undersecretary all the way to the top.

She'd had it all mapped out: muck the feet of the ones in charge, sneak her way into the best focus groups, the best networking events, impress the right people. She was going to have the Ministry in her palm by the time she turned forty.

This hadn't been in the plan.

The lift arrived with a groan, interrupting her stewing. In went the box, flight a little more jerky, and then Hermione. Sensible heels just about managed to avoid sticking in the grates. Just.

She chose to be mad about that too, and dropped her box with as much energy as she could stream through her wand. The floor deserved some bruising. If floors could bruise, that is. She wondered briefly if she was turning into Luna, losing her sanity, or merely mixing analogies. All three?

"Something on your mind, Granger?"

That the voice startled her brought an ashamed blush to her cheeks.

"Bog off, Nott," she replied, turning to face him while trying to collect herself before she did something embarrassing.

 _Like losing her temper with inanimate objects in the middle of the Ministry embarrassing..._

"Hey," he smirked, hands raised in mock surrender. "Don't shoot the elf for making breakfast."

"What does that even mean?"

His grin widened, stretching toward his oversized ears in a way that would make the man attractive if it weren't for the cool glint in his eye. He took a step forward, leaning into enough that his thick wool cloak scraped against her shoulders and his scent – heady, masculine – crowded her.

His movements were deliberate, slow and calculated. To what end she didn't know, but it didn't mean she couldn't admire.

And then his lips were grazing the shell of her ear and his voice was breathier than she'd imagined it could be.

"That, my dear, is why you were never going to make it in this place."

The lift stopped, and the air stilled. Hermione blinked, just the once, but when she'd opened her eyes she was alone again. Her and her box of tat and her accelerated heart beat. Alone and confused and... and... still mad as hell.

* * *

Half an hour later, Nott entered the sunroom of Malfoy Manor and announced, a picture of calm: "I think we've got her."

Draco, sprawled over an over-stuffed chaise, didn't even lift his head to say, "Don't drip on my tiles, Nott."

Another crash of thunder smothered the taller man's response. It probably wasn't pleasant anyway.

* * *

Harry hadn't understood. He'd made all the right noises, and Hermione was sure he'd _tried_ to get it, but he hadn't understood at all.

"Maybe it's not what you think," he'd said, putting on his 'concerned face' with the furrowed brows and the little quirk to his mouth. He'd even pulled the 'rubbing my glasses on my shirt to avoid looking at you' move. Classic Harry.

In what way was the systematic removal of muggleborns from positions of power 'not what she thought'? It was alright for him – he was a pureblood, and the Chosen One, and the Wizarding world's pet. And the Auror department was run autonomously anyway, so it would take millennia for the changes to reach his hidey-hole on the 3rd floor.

"Are you sure you're not too invested?" he'd asked. She hadn't deigned to reply to that, choosing instead to leave.

He hadn't listened to any of her arguments, even after twenty years of friendship and who knows how many times she'd rescued him? From Voldemort, from gold-diggers, from Mrs Weasley and her determination to see him married off.

Her rants had gone down even worse with Ron.

"It's just a job, 'Mione," he'd shrugged. Then he'd played the 'dimples' card, his Queen to Harry's King in the poker game of facial experiments. "You're clever. You'll get another one no problem."

She'd resisted the urge to snort, but only barely.

It wasn't Ron's fault, she supposed. The man wouldn't know a _career_ if it bit him on the arse, preferring his little gig on George's shop floor and okay, that was fine for some, but she was Hermione Granger and she'd had plans and ambitions. It wasn't just any job that could carry you to Minister.

"What about teaching? You know McGonagall would take you?" he'd suggested. She'd assumed at first it was a joke, but his eyes. The sincerity. Oh, Ron; it was like talking to bricks left too long in the sun.

And was it too much to ask to have a friend who knew the first thing about her? Honest to Merlin, she could feel the blood pulsing in her ears again already, the hurricane inside trying to escape, growing and hurtling itself through her insides until the pressure was almost too much.

For the second time that day, Hermione left before she could really lose her temper.

* * *

 **A/N** To warn everyone, this is not going to be a happy-perfect-Gryffindor-Hermione story. This is full on morally-ambiguous, fed-up Hermione on a quest to take over the Wizarding World. The rating might change to M eventually depending how I play this. Just figured you'd want to know before deciding whether to continue; even if I were to give Hermione a happy ending, there would still be death and blood and darkness and all manor of things that make you question your ethics because there'll also be bits and pieces taken from real life to spice things up. That's all I had to say, really.


	2. Chapter 2

The Leaky Cauldron had never been a bastion of cleanliness, but it really outdid itself in the last days of autumn. As the heavy oak door slammed shut behind the latest entry, a gust of air sent loose straw hurtling across the floor, sent the dust spiralling away from the windowsills. Sent Hermione's curls across her face, across her lips, dunking into her pint.

There was no respite for the downtrodden.

Pockets filled with what was left of that month's pay packet, Hermione had sought out that particular pub for the isolation it provided. No one needed to get through to Diagon Alley at that late hour, and surely there would be fewer other poor souls actually choosing to drink there. She refused to think of the amount of bacteria settled on the rim of her glass.

But how was a girl supposed to get thoroughly drunk in solitude when the door kept opening every other minute?

And maybe she was overreacting, but she just wanted one night off from being the good-girl Gryffindor. Her shaky climb up the ladder, ten years in the making, had been voided in a ten minute meeting with a slimy resource manager. Her ambitions were crumbling around her for the crime of being a muggleborn.

It was like the war had never happened. Had she been childish to ignore McGonagall's warnings that girls of her stature would struggle in the Ministry? She'd thought maybe being Head Girl might cancel it out. She'd thought helping to _save their bastard blood obsessed arses_ might help her win promotions.

Apparently she'd thought wrong.

 _"We have to let you go, Miss, er, Granger. Thank you for your work."_

Arseholes.

"Still brooding, Granger?"

Hermione started – the second time that day – and turned sharply to face the speaker.

"Nott," she nodded, teeth grinding slightly over the word.

"May I?"

He didn't wait for permission before taking the empty barstool beside her, sitting with a casual grace she had to admit to envying. Sodding bastard didn't even need to lift a finger for the barkeep to bring along a tumbler of something dark, ominous.

Hermione gave him to the count of 5 to explain his presence.

 _1..._

 _2..._

 _3..._

 _4..._

"You've grown up since school," he said. His eyes trailed, slowly, from her boots up to her hands, clutching firmly at her glass, and further to her curls. He finally settled to look into her eyes, delicately spun honey, wary and accusing. "That's good."

"You've not."

The man laughed, a shocking bark that startled a litter of spiders from their hideaway behind the bar.

"You're a terrible liar but we can fix that," he smiled. It looked almost genuine, but for a tightness in his cheek. He had a point – save for the way everything about him screamed 'git', and the fact his ears would still probably pick up a decent radio signal, he was definitely no longer the scrawny Head Boy she'd worked with at Hogwarts. There was a confidence about him now, in his posture and the way his fingers held perfectly still on the counter top and in his level gaze.

"Oh don't look at me like that," he said when it became clear Hermione wasn't in the least bit amused. "I'm not here to hurt you.

"I'm still waiting to hear what you want," she replied. "I assume you're not interrupting my even just to insult me?"

"What are you drinking? Butterbeer?" Purposefully avoiding the question again, she noted. "Absolute swill. You should come with me for a real drink. Ever had hundred year aged firewhiskey, Granger?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. She might not have had many suitors herself, but she'd heard similar lines pulled on Ginny over the years. It always ended up with her heading home alone, and her friend, she assumed, reasonably satisfied.

Nott had another thing coming if he thought she'd fall for something like that. Although maybe the stress relief...

"I'm not trying to pick you up." Well, there went that thought.

"You've not been very clear about what you are or aren't doing so far."

Nott smiled again, that cat-and-cream grin that could have sent a shiver down a weaker girl's spine. Or a less stressed, still employed, better blooded girl, maybe.

"Think of it as old acquaintances reconnecting over drinks," he said. Hermione didn't shift, didn't relieve the tension from her brows, didn't give any indication she believed a word he said. "Or," Nott suggested, "Or you could think of this as a business proposal that has the potential to give you everything you desire."

She took a sip from her glass, suddenly all too aware that Nott was right, that the inn's drinks really were terrible quality. There was nothing about his words that seemed threatening, nor his body language. Even the glint in his eye softened as she worried her bottom lip in thought.

Then again, she knew from experience how dangerous he could be. You couldn't work side-by-side with a man as Head students and not notice his disregard for morals and decency and everything she'd valued as an idealistic. You couldn't work in the same department as a man and not hear the rumours. The junior assistants had loved to gossip. That so many considered themselves jilted lovers to the man only intensified that.

It came down to risk.

And reward.

* * *

"Everything?" she asked eventually. He nodded, just the once. "The whiskey had better be spectacular then."

And for the first time since that farcical meeting so many hours before, Hermione Granger smiled.

Stumbling through the grate, Hermione cursed whichever relative of Nott's had placed anti-apparition wards on his bloody property. It wasn't so much vanity as a keen sense of self-preservation, but she really didn't fancy traipsing soot across whatever pretentious material he'd laid for floors.

The starched coats of baby seals, maybe. Or two thousand pink diamonds?

When she looked up, though, satisfied that most of the ash had fallen away, her breath caught.

"Welcome to Eden," announced Nott. He stretched his arms wide as though to show off the room, but the gesture was inadequate really. Every wall, every nook and cranny and then some beyond that, was crammed with books. Old leather tomes bound by hand before even Merlin himself; small diaries kept by generations of Notts; a cabinet dedicated solely to Hogwarts textbooks and notes.

Hermione shook her head in wonderment. "Not Eden," she smiled. "This is Shangri-La. This is-"

She trailed off, eyes round and breaths coming in shorter puffs. It wasn't what she'd expected, that much was certain. Was this it? Her 'everything'? It was a sight to behold, a room as large as Hogwarts' Great Hall dedicated solely to literature, but it was just-

"It's an architectural nightmare is what it is," came a new voice, indignant and clear, from the opposite side of the room. Indignant and clear and altogether recognisable.

She turned to Nott, catching a flash of something cross his face, a twitch under the eye. "What-?"

And then the man himself stepped into the light of the fire still crackling behind them. Pale hair, paler skin. That long, aristocratic nose that had split her knuckles at fourteen.

"Malfoy?" Her hair flew wildly as she faced first Nott, then the intruder, and back. "What's going on? Nott?"

"Take a seat, Granger, and we'll have the elves fetch you a drink," said Malfoy. "You're probably going to need it."

* * *

 **A/N** Quick thank you to the reviewers this story had for the first chapter already! I'm really interested in how people respond to a darker Hermione. And to Theo and Draco and the rest of the cast too, however little we see of them. To those who've followed, I'm definitely not going to be able to keep up this frequency with later chapters, but there should be at least one more by the end of the weekend.


	3. Chapter 3

"So I believe there was talk of a business proposal?" she asked. They had each taken a seat, rather stiffly, around the fireplace. The unlikely trio waited in heavy silence as a house-elf dithered and fussed over their drinks and forced Hermione to accept an offer of biscuits.

 _"Yous is a guest of Young Mister Notts, yes you is. Uuly always brings biscuits for guests of Young Mister Notts."_

"All in good time, Granger," replied Nott. He was probably the most natural looking of them all, arm stretched out over the back of his chair. "First I think we need to discuss some things."

"Oh?" A brow shot up. "And what things might that be? Things like the ferrety git's presence maybe?" She gestured to said ferret with her chin, a clear dismissal.

"Now, now," Nott warned, voice low, careful. "No one's in this room who can't be trusted."

Hermione scoffed. "Somehow I doubt Malfoy's any happier to see me here than I am him."

"Then for once in your life you'd be mistaken," the man in question drawled. He didn't exude the same untouchable aura as his taller friend, but his eyes, half hidden by hooded lids, were just as hard. Cold steel, his stare not giving away anything.

"So what, we're all here to become friends and braid each other's hair?"

"It'd be a fool who tried to control your bird's nest." Still no change in his eyes. That was disconcerting.

"Try to keep up, Malfoy," she said. "We moved on from my hair by sixth year."

"Sorry to disappoint. I could take shots at your blood if you'd prefer?"

Hermione started forward, unable to mimic the man's cool demeanour. The whiskey – and it really was as good as Nott had suggested, annoyingly – wasn't helping keep a lid on her temper.

"I –"

"Okay, okay, _children!_ " interrupted Nott. There was a small smile playing at his lips again, and he remained comfortably settled in his chair, but something in his tone made Hermione pause. She wondered if that should worry her, his quiet power. Not many people could get her to hush with so little effort.

She gave him 'the look', as Harry had named it – her 'bitch glare' according to Ron – but didn't comment.

Malfoy, she noted happily, was finally showing some emotion, tongue pressing into his cheek. Tense.

Good, she thought. It evened the playing field if she could get the men before her to act human.

"Now you've gotten over the urge to squabble like a bunch of goblins, we can move on, yes?" said Nott. Neither of his guests replied, but neither objected either. "Merlin, this is worse than taking tea with your mother, Drake."

"She's really mastered the use of awkward silences as a tactic," he explained to Hermione.

"I didn't realise conversations needed tactics," she said.

"There's a lot you don't realise yet," commented Malfoy. Before Hermione could rile herself, he added, "It's not an insult, Granger, just an honest observation."

"Funny how they sound one in the same coming from you."

Malfoy sighed. "Are you sure about this, Theo? It has to be her?"

"Trust me on this," Nott said. "She'll be perfect."

An uneasy feeling settled in Hermione's stomach as she listened to these men discuss her so casually, as though she couldn't hear their every word. Or maybe she couldn't; how much were they saying between the words? How much of this conversation was she missing, hidden meanings only Slytherins could catch?

"What," she asked, "Am I supposed to be perfect _for_?"

And really, this had to be at least the third time she'd tried to ask what Nott had planned and she was about to have a conniption if he avoided the question again.

This time, finally, thankfully, Nott had the good sense to answer.

"Politics," he said.

"Politics," she repeated, not sure she'd heard him right.

He shifted his position, meeting her stare dead on and she had to focus more effort than she'd be comfortable admitting on keeping her breathing steady. A stare like that could be deadly. Definitely not the gawky Head Boy any more.

Malfoy watched on in interest, curious as to the performance playing out across the girl's face. He didn't often meet people who wore their emotions so freely as Granger and it was fascinating. He wondered what Theo saw in her – she was bright, yes, but there was no room for bleeding hearts in the game they were plotting. His friend's advice had rarely led them astray in the past, though.

Oddly, Nott didn't seem put off at all by Granger's transparent reactions.

"How would you like to rule the world with us?" he asked. Then he waited, watching. Another sip of whiskey. Even breaths, even heartbeat. Mind galloping over itself as he considered every direction this discussion could now feasibly take.

For the first time, the _only_ time, Hermione held the power in the room. From the way her fingers drummed against her tumbler, Nott wasn't sure she was even aware of it.

That she was stunned was obvious. Distrustful, unbelieving.

"I think," Hermione all but whispered, "You had better elaborate."

Malfoy let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. Whatever it was Nott had seen, he was seeing now, and Merlin if it wasn't sending just a small tingle through him.

They had her indeed.

"The Ministry is failing," Nott said. "It's there for the taking, if the right group of people were to go about things in a clever way. This group of people."

"And why us?" she asked. "Why bring me into your rebellion?"

Malfoy jumped in quickest. "With our family histories, we'd never get the votes of the ordinary wizards. We need someone..." he hesitated.

"Virtuous," Nott suggested. "Someone with a golden reputation."

It sounded reasonable, she supposed, but there were dozens of people with good public opinion. Being on the winning side of a war did wonders for a person's image. There was something else going on here. Something she could offer that the Ginnys and Nevilles of the world apparently lacked. Something hidden between the words again. Something like –

"You need my blood!"

"That may be a factor, yes," Nott conceded. He didn't look ashamed or guilty, which was curious. "Your mind, too, if it's going."

"What makes you think I'd be interested?"

Nott snorted – and wasn't it unfair that some men could make even that sound dignified?

"I know you, Granger. You want power and you want recognition. Why else take that God-awful assistant job?"

If she had to put a finger on it, that was the moment. That was when she committed herself to these men and their nefarious schemes because honestly? The allure of being understood was just too strong. With her friends, it was always so difficult to explain herself, and here Nott had laid out her core as though she had told him herself.

"Doesn't it grate on you, knowing that you could do the job so much better than the imbeciles who fired you?"

It was an intoxicating idea.

"You've certainly got my attention," she admitted.

"Lend us your name," Nott pressed, "And your ideas, your brilliance, and we'll help you reshape the world in your image."

Hermione took a moment, but there wasn't much more thought needed, not really. Her hand shaking only by fractions, she raised her glass.

"Let's take over the Ministry."

* * *

 **A/N** The story is now taking a one week hiatus; there should be another update by December.


	4. Chapter 4

They parted ways not long after that. As Nott had made very clear, Hermione was in no fit state to agree on the finer details of their 'take over the world' plan until she'd slept off some of the whiskey.

 _'Steamed as a troll's potatoes'_ was what he's actually said, but the witch figured she'd gathered the gist of it well enough.

Now she was left with an incessant pounding behind her eyes and a heavy feeling in her gut. Waking to the light of the sun through the curtains hadn't helped – just another reminder that she was suddenly very unemployed, no longer having to rise before the winter sunrise.

And when she could finally think straight – headache masked by PepperUps and Sobering Draughts – that was when she let herself panic.

People had been thrown to Azkaban for merely suggesting the Ministry could be overthrown. She'd been there in the courtrooms when academics and private detectives and even a harmless old conspiracy theorist from the Cotswolds had been dragged away by the guards on trumped up charges.

 _Inciting discontent_ , they said. _Potential to dismantle the government_ , they claimed.

 _Treason_.

She'd been there through it all, taking notes on the Ministry's victims and trying not to get any of the blood on her own hands. She'd seen first hand what happened to those who got involved, those who found loopholes in laws that could change the balance of power.

Show trials. Prison. Unfortunate, tragic, accidental deaths in custody.

All very hush-hush, naturally.

Except now she was one of them. Worse, she actually had designs on the throne for herself. If they were caught, it was... it didn't bear thinking about. If they were caught, there would be no trial, not even a pretend one.

This was conspiracy to overthrow a cabinet of very powerful, very _power-hungry_ wizards and she'd signed up to be at its centre.

This was suicide.

"Bloody sodding Merlin," Hermione murmured as she made a dash for the bathroom. The whole affair had made her nauseous.

* * *

A couple of hundred feet underground, Theodore Nott's morning was going significantly more smoothly. The rain from yesterday had cleared, elevating his colleagues' moods and therefore making them that much easier to manipulate.

He'd even managed to drink his morning coffee in relative peace, Draco still passed out in the guest wing instead of interrupting his morning routine with idle gossip and whining. It was like living with a bloody woman sometimes.

As he did the rounds on his co-workers, that charming grin he'd practiced all through his third year at Hogwarts came more naturally than it had in years. Everything he'd done since leaving school – and maybe a bit before that – was coming off.

The puzzle was coming together.

The corner pieces at been found first, his and Draco's late night chats in seventh year about the way the Ministry had treated him in the weeks he'd been 'held for questioning'. The corner pieces had included a list of names. They'd been the catalyst.

Then had come the sides, the rooting out of those helpful little pieces with the obvious agreement. A loyal collective of Slytherins who'd rallied, with some grumbling, around their Head Boy when Hogwarts had proved hostile.

Hermione had been the piece he'd needed to build the picture inside. She had access to networks and information he hadn't. She could touch the hearts of the populace in a way former Death Eaters couldn't. She could win their band of misfits the power they craved and without her the picture would fall apart and he should hate that.

He should hate _her_ , he knows he should. It was the Nott prerogative to dismiss Muggleborns and halfbloods and, really, anyone but the absolute purist (and maybe one or two deranged megalomaniacs while they were at it). He should hate her for how she was born, and he should definitely hate her for how necessary she was to his schemes.

But he didn't. She had something inside her he recognised because they were the same. Blood and status and school house be damned; they shared a ruthlessness and a brilliance he'd be a fool not to use.

It had taken ten years to cultivate her. Being Head Boy had been the start; conveniently getting a role as liaison to her department in the Ministry had been a big step.

Getting her fired? Probably the hardest part - but worth it. It would all be worth it when they had those bastards in power dancing through flames just to escape into poison traps and grindylow pits.

At ten past one, Nott decided he'd waited long enough to put into motion the next stage of the plan.

 _Dear Hermione,_ he wrote, quill looping across the page flawlessly. _Let's meet for dinner. The Half Krupp, 7pm._

He paused, careful not to let any ink drip onto the parchment. Somewhere behind him, a clock ticked once, twice.

Then: _Wear something_ – tick – _impressive._

* * *

Not five minutes later, Draco rolled over under silk sheets and tried to ignore the fact that it was day. Then he tried to ignore the gentle humming coming from the window.

By the third off-key repetition of Frere Jacques, he caved.

"What in Merlin's sodding balls are you doing here, Daph?" he groaned.

At least, that was what he'd meant; it might have come out sounding a little more garbled with his head hidden under the pillow, a bit more "Wharnin Merl's 'alls –oin, Naph?" than intended. It wouldn't matter. His friends had all had over a decade's experience translating his hungover ramblings.

The sound of stilettos clacking against the marble echoed off ceilings obscenely high for a man's bedroom. Draco didn't move.

He didn't move when the sounds stopped, when a new pressure on the bed shifted his position just enough to let a small amount of light into his pillow-cave. He definitely didn't move when a hand came to settle on his exposed back and gently ran across his shoulders.

The humming continued, sounding worse up close.

"Daphne," he groused. Maybe sighed: those nails were criminal.

She didn't reply but then, honestly, he hadn't expected her too. Not when he was so obviously in no fit state and there weren't pressing issues to discuss. The many advantages she held over Pansy as a friend.

Eventually though, they had to move on with the day. Draco's eyes opened lazily; Daphne removed her hand from his skin.

He turned to face her, yawning.

"You look a wreck, darling," Daphne said, face expressionless. Then she patted his arm. "Never mind. You've got until 7 to tidy up. Then I'm picking you up for dinner."

With her main task for the day complete, she left the room with her lace gown catching behind her like a breath. The effect was slightly ruined, she noticed, by the fact Draco wasn't watching – all those hours of practice were wasted on a boy like that.

When he was sure she was gone, Draco rubbed across his eyes. Not for the first time, he wished the girl hadn't spent so much time around his mother as a child. Maybe then he'd get some bloody rest.

* * *

 **A/N** Sorry for the delay. There's no definitive update schedule for this story; just a vague aim for around a chapter a week (on average). Thank to reviewers - had some really helpful ones that have given me a new direction to go down. Would love to keep getting reviews of that kind with ideas for character/plot development; there's no plan other then 'take over the world' so everything's up for grabs. Thanks for reading this far!


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